A long enough time spent away from writing and one secretes a sort of shell, like an African frog in dry-spell hibernation or a caterpillar with no hope of emerging a butterfly.  The shell is thick and either malleable or merely too hard to shatter.  A single spat of productivity doesn’t set me free.

The site is changing, as my aim, and thus all that which is pulled along by its gravity, alters to suit my new purpose.  The business remains and is growing while I take on other tasks, those mandated by my flexible and multifaceted new job, and the bitter-sad reckoning that one must sometimes hide his message in order to see its fruition.  I’d like people to buy plants for the reasons I sell them, but will have to content myself with selling environmentalism in the Trojan horse of decoration.

I do reasonable well at the markets I attend, and if I had a hundred years I could build my business with no alteration to the products I sell.  As I am not entirely certain of my own perpetuality, I’ll have to shift to a line more in demand.  I have been steadily teaching myself wood working and reminding myself how to work metal, stone, and glass.  Every two markets afford me one new substantial tool.  I hope to purchase a bandsaw after the market next; my wrists could use a rest from the ardor of the coping saw.

I’ve started a story.  A real one, one that I can feel even when I’m not writing it.  I know it the way one knows a movie he’s seen a dozen times, I can describe it with complete familiarity.  The frustration comes from filling in the missing pieces for those who don’t live in my head, from making a story out of a sensation that’s rendered itself so damn completely as to make the task of writing it out seem pedantic.

Thence comes the fear.  It’s perfect now, in its supposed, in its potential state.  What if I write it out and I ruin it, and the solid form , the written one, bearing so much more weight as a made thing, crushes the idea of the ephemeral one.  What if I can’t remember how it was, what if I can’t go back?  What if it isn’t perfect?

I haven’t written, so I don’t write, as the same fear pervades everything I think of, every item, wood or pulp, pen or steel, that isn’t yet made but’s been rendered complete in my head.  Would that they were all Athena.

There is perfection in nothingness.  The void is always pure.  But it’s also empty, and humans do not thrive on that which isn’t.  Perfection is good, but should not be sought at the expense of action.  Everything never made is perfect, but that’s far too modern art for me to abide.

I’ll have to make something, perfect or not.

As I often say of the blog, this post’s a start.